


Bellwether

by Brrng



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: But only a little, Drinking to Cope, F/F, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brrng/pseuds/Brrng
Summary: Moira is judgmental, and strangely fascinated with topics that unsettle the others members of Overwatch. She is imposing - perhaps not physically, but with her sheer presence, and the odd glint in her off-colored eyes. She refuses to fall into any category other thancartoon villainhalf the time, flaunting how she yet remains outside the structure of Overwatch as a whole - both because of her employment within Blackwatch and because she is as much an outsider now, several months later, as she was when she first arrived. Not that it seems to bother her.It bothers Angela.





	Bellwether

**Author's Note:**

> For Ash.
> 
> Part of Moira's introduction is a reference to Bennet O'Reilly's in _Bellwether,_ by Connie Willis, which is a novel about fads and scientists and bureaucracy and sheep. It's a pretty good book. 5/5.
> 
> re: drinking tag - if you're iffy on it, it's the third- and second-to-last scenes, and while it's plot-related you can probably skip it.

The day the other scientist arrives, she's in her lab, signing off on some last bits of paperwork when Genji sticks his head in through the open door.

"Angela," he says, his voice carefully blank, and she spins around in her chair, startled, speaking before she realizes who's there. 

"I'm nearly done, don’t rush - oh, Genji." She pauses, voice lifting slightly with worry, and asks, "Is something the matter? One of your prosthetics, perhaps, or-"

"No, nothing is wrong." He hesitates, looking away, then back as he says, "The geneticist has arrived. The one Reyes recruited for Blackwatch."

"The… geneticist," she says, slowly. "For Blackwatch? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Her name is Moira O'Deorain," Genji says, stepping inside so that he can lean against the wall. "Reyes won't say why he got her here, but it seems her recruitment is to be a secret."

"A secret… so she goes to Blackwatch," Angela murmurs, leaning back in her chair and frowning at the wall across from her. "Her name sounds familiar, but I must confess that I don't see the reason behind bringing her here."

"He must know something we don't. Or perhaps it is so that we might keep an eye on her." He pauses, then tilts his head to one side and asks, "You said her name sounds familiar. Do you remember what from? It might shed light on her purpose here."

Angela purses her lips, then shakes her head. "I'm afraid I don't. Should I remember, I'll let you know."

She turns back to her desk, picking up her pen, then glances back. "Goodbye, Genji."

He nods once, hesitating for just a moment in the doorway as if he has something more to say, but all that comes out is "Goodbye, Angela."

\--

Once Genji leaves, she turns back to her computer and searches for _Moira O'Deorain._ She's a little surprised with what pops up - the entire first page of results is news articles and medical journals in turn praising and tearing down O'Deorain's work, and Angela absently scrolls through a few of them before turning back to her reports.

It's a little disconcerting that Gabriel is hiring a geneticist, but - given the nature of Overwatch, and the results Moira claims she has found, Angela supposes she can understand the interest.

\--

She finds Gabriel the next day, cleaning his guns after a session in the practice range, but she doesn't get a chance to ask him about his reasoning behind the new hire.

"You interested in duel?" he asks, glancing over at her, before she has time to get the words out. 

"I'm - sorry?"

"A duel. Sort of. Not like - not you and me going head-to-head." He pauses, scratching at the back of his head, and says, "Jack's heading down here now, last I checked, and Jesse stepped out for a drink. When they get here, are you interested in teaming up with one of us? A two-on-two thing, trying some stuff out."

She hesitates, then offers a small smile, looking pointedly at him. "And ensure that none of you do anything too reckless?"

"Hey, Jesse's the reckless one," protests Gabriel, and she laughs. 

"Of course. Let me grab my suit. I will be back before Jack arrives, I promise you." 

"Not hard to do," laughs Gabriel. "Thanks."

\--

"So!" comes a low, smooth voice. "This is the lab of Doctor Ziegler."

Angela startles for the second time in as many days as someone enters her lab, turning her head sharply as a tall, imposing-looking woman crosses over the threshold. 

"I… yes, it is," she says. "A lab that is not open, not at," she turns back to her desk, glancing at the clock that hangs over it, and says, "2:30 in the morning. If this is an emergency, then I can make an exception, but otherwise I must ask that you leave."

The woman laughs, stepping lightly around machinery and leaning closer to inspect one of Angela's screens, still displaying results from a test run of her Valkyrie suit in combat earlier in the day. "My, what a remarkable bit of work," she says, leaning in and crossing her arms behind her back. "I did see you, earlier in the practice range, and I must applaud your craftsmanship."

"I… thank you? But-"

"It's a little poetic, though," muses the woman, standing back up. "A guardian angel, descending from the heavens to administer aid to the wounded? Grandiose, don't you think?"

Angela pauses, staring blankly at the woman in front of her. She's tall, and redheaded, smiling blithely in Angela's direction without looking straight at her. Her arms still neatly crossed behind her and her lab coat has a puddle of Magic Marker at the bottom of the breast pocket. She looks dually at home and completely out of place in Angela's lab, like a cloud on an otherwise perfectly clear day; a herald of storms and an escape from the sun, wrapped together in one purple-hued woman.

"Who are you?" Angela blurts out, unable to stop herself from asking.

"Moira O'Deorain. I believe some announcement was made to my arrival." She turns slightly, looking away from Angela, and missing the scowl she shoots in her direction. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Angela pauses, waiting until the silence has gone on just a beat past the socially acceptable. "Forgive me if I cannot say the same," she says, with a certain amount of chill in her voice. "It is late and I must finish my work. If you'd be so kind as to leave?"

Moira laughs, not even so much as a crack in her smile, and inclines her head towards Angela. "Of course. Good night, Doctor."

She leaves as easily as she came, the door sliding shut behind her, and Angela doesn't immediately return to her work. Instead, she watches the door, mind both racing and yet utterly blank at the arrival of one Moira O'Deorain.

\--

She keeps running into her.

The Watchpoint is not small, by any means, and Angela has never been one to frequent the more crowded parts of the base. If she must, she arrives early to beat the crowd and hurries to finish whatever business brought her there, whether it be dinner or a meeting with Jack. But Moira is _always there._

She's half tempted to confront her, demand to know why she's being followed, or perhaps even march into Gabriel's office and… she doesn't know. Ask him why he felt the need for a geneticist? Why he felt that _Moira_ was the one to pick up? 

Her temptation subsides and she's left standing in the middle of a hallway, feeling foolish and glaring at the door to her room. 

She steps in, carefully avoiding a pile of crumpled papers - her lab may be clean, but her room is a disaster - and reaches blindly for the keypad next to the door. With one press, the door slides shut behind her and the lights flicker on; with how her week has gone, she's almost expecting to see Moira lounging about in her desk chair - the only cleared sitting space in the room - waiting to snidely comment on her interior décor. 

No one's there. She sags against the door, letting out a long breath, and looks blankly ahead. 

She'd done some research on Moira after her unannounced visit to her lab. She was older than she'd expected; even though Angela had gotten used to being the youngest person in the room, it was always a surprise to find out the ages of her colleagues. And… that's what Moira was, now. She might be Blackwatch, working with Gabriel on whatever secretive missions he ran, but it was still a division of Overwatch itself. 

She frowns at the wall. She shouldn't, it's done nothing to warrant her disapproval, but since the woman she'd much rather be scowling at is nowhere to be found, it's a suitable substitute.

And that was part of it, wasn't it? That was the problem in its entirety.

She'd rather Moira be there.

\--

It takes her a few days of moving only between her room and her lab to work out why, exactly, the person she wants nothing to do with is constantly on her mind. She doesn't see Moira during those days, which she chalks up to finally figuring out how to avoid running into her, and she feels almost proud about it until Jesse lets slip that Moira's off in Switzerland with Gabriel to get some equipment from a different Watchpoint.

In those days, she decides that it could only be - it _must_ be - that Moira is new. That's all. She's new, with a similar place within Overwatch (albeit within a different division), and her unexpected visit to Angela's lab that night had sparked her curiosity and perhaps a bit of annoyance, as any late-night, unannounced arrival is wont to do. She was a novelty soon to wear off and that was all. 

A bit of professional interest. Nothing more.

\--

The first time Angela and Moira work together is, strangely enough, a team simulation run through one of the Watchpoint's empty hangars. While a number of agents attempt to pass through a blockade by any means possible, Angela circles the field on a series of high catwalks and swoops down when someone gets a bit too rough. Moira is working a similar position, although she darts across the hangar, covering a different portion of the field so that together they might minimize injuries during training.

She catches Moira's eye on one of her descents, then quickly looks away to hide the sudden burning in her cheeks; she can see it in Moira's face, the same sort of condescending smile that she gave when she'd burst into Angela's lab and delicately insulted her angelic persona. She jabs the poor agent in front of her with her staff just a bit too hard, then quickly retreats to the high ground, away from Moira's piercing looks and too-wide grins.

It is the first time they work together and Angela resolves to make it the last.

\--

Of course it's not the last time. Even though Angela avoids meetings when she can and leaves early when she can't, despite the fact that she drops not-so-subtle hints that she really is _terribly_ busy and _no_ she can't drop what she's doing, she keeps getting drawn into training sessions and simulations. Whether she and Moira are on opposite sides of the field or the same, Moira always finds some way to catch Angela's gaze and smile just a little too wickedly at her. The kind of look that says _we're in on the same secret,_ the kind of grin that says _the secret's at your expense._

She'd always been somewhat proud of her persona; the celestial woman, administering healing to those who needed it, a guardian angel. A true force for good in a world that desperately needed it. But she can't help but feel like a child playing pretend when Moira's nearby. Nevermind the fact that Moira's barely more than a mad scientist experimenting in a lab fit for a Hollywood thriller - Angela feels judged, and self-conscious, and almost desperate to prove herself. It feels, when she bothers to reflect on it later, as if she's trying to impress the geneticist.

She pauses for a moment after having that thought, letting it sink in, and then shoves a pile of somewhat-folded clothing off of her dresser and onto the floor in disgust.

\--

It's been a long night. A strike team had returned late from dealing with a lingering omnic threat in Michigan, coming back with broken bones (and, in one unfortunate agent's case, half a hand) and Angela's lab has only just vacated. The clock above her desk tells her that it's long past midnight, explaining her yawning and trouble focusing, and she sighs before standing up to leave.

She pushes her chair back, giving the room one last look-around before stepping to the door. One of the hospital beds in the back is occupied, but she's left a note in case the agent wakes up before morning - doubtful, but it's happened before, and the reaction is never good with this level of anesthetic. She dims the light in the lab, so that it's not completely dark, and lets the door slide quietly shut behind her, then takes a moment to breathe. The base is silent, with only faint lights lining the major halls, and she makes her way down one towards the kitchen for a cup of tea before bed; something relaxing, she thinks. 

She doesn't get that far. About halfway down, she hears a voice echoing down the hall, rising and falling so that she can only make out parts of what's being said. 

"…and when attached… at the effector lev…… the sympathetic nervous system," says the voice, growing louder as she inches towards the open door it's coming through. "When the mechanism is in place… it causes a- ah, no. That's not right."

She peers inside the room, taking in the sight of Moira's lab. She'd seen it once or twice before, of course; she'd poked her head inside when Moira had first been brought in, curious to see what her lab looked like - would it resemble Angela's, spotlessly clean? - and been disappointed that it was mainly machinery and chairs stacked on top of each other. But now, with Moira inside and the screens all brilliantly lit, it looks impressively functional. 

Moira stands in front of one of the larger screens in the center of the room, a voice recorder in one hand and a pen in the other, scrawling large, looping letters across the page. She's still talking to herself, but quietly enough that the her voice doesn't carry out to the hall. 

Angela watches for a moment, curious to see Moira at work, then quietly retreats down the kitchen, Moira's voice fading as she walks away.

She finds a seat in the kitchen, waiting for the tea to boil, and stares down at the table. She knew Moira was capable - that much had been obvious from the moment she arrived. But to see it for herself is something different, and there's a vague sort of respectful interest to know that Moira has the knowledge to back up her position. 

Well, some knowledge. There's really no way of telling just how much she has under her belt when Angela's only eavesdropped from a door as Moira records her notes. The kettle whistles and she stands, hands moving without her really thinking about it, and she wonders about Moira, and about if her own medical and scientific skill is as impressive to Moira as Moira's is to her. 

She nearly scalds herself, overpouring the water, and swears softly.

\--

It gets worse from there. She may admit that Moira is not at all incompetent; she may agree that she serves her purpose within Blackwatch; she might even compliment her work ethic, should the topic arise. But the woman herself is _infuriating._

Moira is judgmental, and strangely fascinated with topics that unsettle the others members of Overwatch. She is imposing - perhaps not physically, but with her sheer presence, and the odd glint in her off-colored eyes. She refuses to fall into any category other than _cartoon villain_ half the time, flaunting how she yet remains outside the structure of Overwatch as a whole - both because of her employment within Blackwatch and because she is as much an outsider now, several months later, as she was when she first arrived. Not that it seems to bother her.

It bothers Angela. She'd been almost _interested_ when Genji had stuck his head into her lab that day, to inform her that Moira was set to arrive - another scientist? Ana has always had some interest in Angela's work, but her applications of it were too violent for her to really approve. Genji understood only as much as was necessary to continue functioning. Moira… Moira could have been someone she grew close to, bonding over their similar work experiences. Or something.

She tries to keep any… outbursts localized to her room, where no one else need see the mess she's made. She tries other outlets for her emotions, asking around for suggestions - Reinhardt encourages her to try out a punching bag in one of the Watchpoint's training rooms, while Jesse suggests his own vices of smoking and drinking. 

She shakes her head, saying, "Smoking's bad for your-"

"I know, doc," he says, cutting her off midsentence and mid-frown. "I know. But hey, if it helps, it helps, no use judgin' it. 'Sides," he adds with a wink, "you can fix me right up if I ever screw myself over too bad, yeah?"

\--

The punching bag helps a little, but it's not enough, and if she spends any more time there she thinks someone will start asking questions. Jesse's suggestions fall flat - she can't justify the harm either would do to her health, despite how agitated the whole thing makes her.

She sticks to her tried-and-true method of pushing papers off of her desk and glaring at the mess it makes. It doesn’t help much, either.

\--

She ends up snapping at Torbjörn the next day over something inconsequential. Then she gets into a shouting match with Jack about routine maintenance of the orbital launch facilities of the Watchpoint. And then she storms out of the meeting chamber, nearly slamming into a confused Captain Amari just outside the door.

"Oh, Angela, is the meeting-"

"The meeting's fine, I'm fine, nothing is wrong," snaps Angela, already feeling the hot anger melt from her and embarrassment take its place. "I - I need to get something. Goodbye."

She hurries off, turning the corner before Ana can respond, and nearly heads to her lab to hide before detouring out to the hangar catwalks, where she doubts anyone will come looking for her. She… she needs to think.

\--

She doesn't end up thinking as much as she might have hoped. She finds a secluded spot, just out of sight from the ground, and curls up there for some time. She doesn't know how long, but she hopes it's been long enough that no matter how confused or angry Jack and the rest might be, they'll wait until morning to confront her about it.

What little she did think on the matter, though, adds up to this:

First, she can't write off her - her _obsession_ with Moira as nothing but professional curiosity at this point. This has morphed into something entirely different and not at all professional.

Second, the strange sort of self-consciousness, the eagerness to prove herself to Moira and impress her, is… confusing. She's acting like a schoolgirl infatuated with a classmate, and despite the snide comments and sideways glances Moira throws her way, Angela begrudgingly admits to herself that this… feeling really isn't going away like she would hope it might. 

And that's the third thing, isn't it? That feeling.

Angela was a child prodigy. She's never spent much time around people her own age, and so she never really passed the sort of milestones of generic youth - the dances, the parties, the telling of secrets to a best friend in the safety of a dark room when the rest of the world was asleep. The crushes.

She sighs, burying her head in her arms. 

She has never had to deal with a crush.

\--

She explains her outbursts to Torbjörn and to Jack - and to Ana, who she catches in the kitchen late at night, and shares a cup of tea with - as nothing more than stress and overwork making themselves known in the most inconvenient way possible. She promises to take some time off, to allow herself to recover, and she walks out of the conversations feeling more than a little guilty about lying over something so inconsequential.

Jack tells her to get some rest and Torbjörn smiles at her, easily accepting her apology. Ana says, "Work is like that - it will take more out of you than it gives. It is a delicate balancing act."

Angela looks away, hesitating before saying, "Where do other people fit into it all? Social… relationships?"

"Social ones… friends?"

She shifts her weight, feeling awkward. "Relationships. I… romantic ones, I suppose."

She laughs. "If I knew, perhaps I would have stayed with Fareeha's father." Angela glances back as Ana says, "Who knows? I think it must be different for everyone. The people I am most connected to are all here, with Overwatch, with my work. My relationships with them are stronger than a romantic entanglement a continent away. Maybe it is the same for you." 

"Maybe," she says. "Or maybe there is no room for any of those in my life." _Maybe, if Ana says it, I will believe it and my feelings will go away,_ she thinks. 

"There is room in every life for relationships," says Ana, and she's torn between the twin feelings of disappointment and happiness that fill her. Ana rests one hand on Angela's shoulder and smiles kindly, saying, "There is always room. Friendships, partnerships… family and memorable strangers. All of it. No life is complete without them, but no two peoples' are the same."

She hesitates. "I… you're right."

"I usually am!" Ana laughs again. "Find a balance between work and people, Angela. Perhaps it will help prevent you burning out again, hm?"

The two part ways, walking away from one another, and Angela's emotions toss and turn inside of her. Disappointment in herself for pretending that her awkwardness surrounding Moira had boiled over and that she'd told the others it was just the result of overworking herself, disappointment that Ana hadn't soothed her fears in the way she had hoped - that was the main one. But there was a little bit of quiet excitement, a traitorous part of her that wanted to see what would happen if she took a leap of faith with regards to her Moira problem, and a whole mess of confusion to top the whole thing off.

Angela sighs. Something was very wrong if the confusion made the most sense.

\--

It takes her a week to consider all the possibilities. Does she ask Moira out on a date and hope it goes so poorly she vows to cut off any lingering feelings towards her, assuming Moira doesn't laugh and say no when asked? Does she pretend Moira doesn’t exist, ignoring her when she can and hurrying out of conversations when she can't?

They're all so… _drastic,_ she thinks, looking sourly at her computer screen. Forcing herself to go full-on, completely devote herself to one path, where either she professes her feelings or gives Moira the cold shoulder. She draws back from the desk, spinning around slowly in her chair and looking out over her lab, then bites at her lip, thinking, _if those are the extremes, what is the middle ground?_

\--

The next time she and Moira cross paths, Angela is determined not to fall back into old habits. Avoiding her at every turn won't help her; she aims to get over her crush as soon as she possibly can so that her work and friendships don't suffer more than they have. This, she tells herself, _is_ the middle ground: casual almost-friendliness, the sort of familiarity that comes from seeing someone regularly but never progresses past small talk about the weather.

She does breathing exercises, because those are supposed to be calming, and counts down from ten. She smiles at herself in the mirror, pretending that her reflection is taller and sharper than it truly is; it's not a great substitute for the woman herself, but it will do. She practices and perfects until she's satisfied with the result - and then promptly feels ridiculous for having spent all that time on a smile.

When she sees the Blackwatch trio - Genji, Gabriel, and Jesse - coming out of one of the meeting rooms, she steels herself and stops for a chat. And when Moira steps out of the room just a moment later, Angela smiles politely at her - a sure change from her usual reluctance to interact - before she bids goodbye to Genji and walks away.

\--

Her plan continues, slowly but surely, and she's almost amazed at how easily Moira accepts the change. Angela's still not friendly, by any means - most anyone else would consider the way she's acting towards Moira rude and a little uncalled for, especially given Angela's more caring nature. (It's absolutely called for, she thinks, but - she wouldn't argue the "rude" bit.) But then again, it seems Moira's version of "friendly" involves quite a lot more sarcastic teasing than most people Angela's known. She probably just thinks Angela's finally warming up to her.

She considers this as she suits up, donning the Valkyrie suit with all of its bits and pieces; all the parts that don't make it out to the training floor and all the parts that do. She's sparkling clean, shiny and chrome; the caduceus staff is heavy in her palms and the matching pistol sits at her side, reflecting in the mirror above her dresser. She looks impressive - she won't be intimidating, not by any means, but her suit is functional and pleasing to the eye. It might stick out like a sore thumb, an oasis of cleanliness in her disaster of a room, but luckily for her battles aren't fought in bedrooms.

She sighs. There's a mission off in Spain and, ever the heroes, Overwatch is to come save the day. And, she thinks, with some amount of exasperation, where the soldiers go, so must the medic follow.

She rests her staff on one shoulder, fitting her earpiece in as she exits the dormitories and heads towards the landing pad. There's a faint buzz as it activates, tuning itself to the correct station, and then silence broken only by the click-clacking of Angela's boots on the hard floors of the Watchpoint. 

"Fancy seeing you out," comes a voice, and Moira sidles up next to her. "I was under the impression you never left this place."

Angela takes a breath, firmly thinking, _stick to your plan,_ and says, "My work has more recently kept me here, yes. But a doctor is always appreciated when missions can so easily take a turn for the worse."

"Quite so," says Moira, easily agreeing. "One must wonder, though, just how badly this will go if they feel the need to send us both."

She can't hide her surprise when she looks over and Moira laughs. "Ah, were you unaware? I may not be an advertised member of Blackwatch, but my skills are useful, be it in a laboratory or in a skirmish. And this," she says, making a sweeping gesture, "is to be my debut."

"I must ask you to make it a good one, then," she says, as they turn a corner and reach the landing pad. 

"I have every intention of doing so." They walk a few steps more and the silence isn't overbearing, or strained, as Angela would have expected. It's… almost friendly. She supposes that means she's doing well. 

"Ah, before we go," says Moira, breaking the silence. "I would ask - Gabriel informs me that, during missions, all members of the team go by callsigns."

The question is unspoken - _tell me yours, won't you?_ \- but there's no malicious look in Moira's face. The condescension Angela would have expected to see there is replaced with simple curiosity - and that lack alone gives her the courage to say, "Mercy," hoping that Moira won't ruin the moment by laughing at the name that matches her outfit, halo and all. 

"Mercy." Moira smiles, something almost kind - and out of place, given the way she's reacted previously to her angelic aesthetic. Just before turning away, she says, "It suits you."

Angela's left to watch her go, the unexpected compliment hanging in the air above her, and she thinks, _oh, this plan really is working, isn't it?_

\--

Her plan isn't working.

Moira, in response to Angela's change of pace - and oh, it really is quite a change, from the cold shoulder and blushing frustration to coworker familiarity and the occasional polite smile in passing - has only gotten closer. She'll walk with Angela down a hall or sit across from her during meetings, giving the both of them a clear view of the other. She's awfully distracting, Angela thinks, more than a little sourly. It's not… entirely unpleasant, but it's hard to focus on whoever's talking when Moira's doing that _thing_ she does with her hands when she's bored. 

She hopes that this still counts as little more than a puppy crush, something small enough to fade within the week.

Even during training, Moira's taken to dealing more damage than she does healing herself and the others, forcing Angela to drop down from above to keep her in the game - often more so than she does the others. "You're capable of doing this yourself, you know," she says, more than a little stern, on one such occasion. 

"So I am," Moira agrees, throwing herself back into the fray with the sort of reckless abandon Angela expects from Genji or the new girl - Lena, was it? - and not from someone as cool and collected as Moira. She hesitates, watching her go, darting through the makeshift battlefield with one arm outstretched, before she realizes she's staring and beats a hasty retreat back to the high ground.

That's not all, of course. Moira drops by Angela's lab, perching on whatever flat surface she can find, and Angela finds herself torn between the butterflies in her stomach and the sort of annoyance that comes with a distraction from work. 

_A distraction you like,_ comes an unbidden thought as she writes up a report. _One you wouldn't mind more of._

"So maybe I do," says Angela, muttering to herself and hitting the keys in front of her more forcefully than she should. "It does not change anything."

\--

" _Doc_ tor Ziegler," comes a voice from the lab entrance. "I'm surprised, really. A fine day such as this and you're holed up in here?"

Angela pauses in her movements, one hand resting on a recent prototype of her caduceus staff, the other hovering over a touchscreen, and says, "Hello, Moira." She glances over as Moira steps lightly inside, making her way around the machinery to stand beside her, carefully schooling her expression into something that doesn't give away the sudden nervousness she feels. "I'm afraid I'm too busy to-"

"Nonsense," says Moira. "It's a lovely day outside, you've been in here for-" she looks down at her bare wrist, as if checking a watch, and says, "ages, and now I must insist you get some fresh air."

She blinks in surprise, unable to really formulate a protest as Moira clasps her arm and pulls her, insistently but not painfully so, towards the door. Her feet move before she realizes what she's doing, and Moira's grin is brilliant in the artificial lighting.

The artificial quickly gives way to the natural as Moira leads her out a side door, near where the Gibraltar cliffs meet the Watchpoint itself. It really is a beautiful day - the few clouds in sight are white and fluffy, without so much as a gray tinge to suggest rainfall later, and the breeze is refreshingly cool. 

"It's lovely," she says, acutely aware that Moira is still holding on to her, "but I must confess I don't see why it was important for me to see."

There's no immediate reply, and she glances over as subtly as she can. Moira's looking up and out over the water, just barely smiling, and Angela's so caught up in her expression that when Moira looks over, she almost catches her staring. 

"You work too hard," says Moira, after a moment. "Which is, perhaps, not the worst thing in the world - far be it, hard work and dedication are the foundation for all that we do. That being said… it would be a pity for you to burn yourself out." 

She glances sideways at Angela, who feels her cheeks heat up with a sudden blush. "Like I said - it is a fine day to relax and recharge for tomorrow's work. I believe there's a place just down the way that serves excellent paninis." She lets go of Angela's arm, and Angela must be imagining her fingers lingering just a moment longer, as she gestures down the path. "If you'd care to join me?"

Angela briefly thinks back to her lab - the prototype left on the table, none of her equipment turned off - and says, softly, "It _has_ been a while since I went out." 

Moira smiles, tucking her arms neatly behind her. "Grand."

\--

The evening outing is… surprisingly nice. The weather stays clear through the dinner - the nice little place Moira brings her to is pleasantly cozy, and over their meals, they discuss their work, how irritating Jesse can be when he feels like being a nuisance, and Moira even brings up her fondness for animated shows. Angela can't recall enjoying an outing as much as she has, and she says as much as they reenter the Watchpoint, passing by her lab - lights turned off, which means a technician stepped in; kind of them to do so - and walking towards the dormitories.

"I'm glad," Moira says, laughing slightly. "Perhaps we ought to do it again, then?"

"Oh, that would be nice," says Angela, speaking before she's fully processed what Moira is saying. 

"Wonderful." They pause before Angela's door, and for a moment it seems as if one of them is going to do something more, but Moira only smiles and says, "Next Tuesday, I think. If you're amenable?"

"I - yes, I believe so."

Moira hums something affirmative. "If you have anywhere in mind, it is only fair that you get a chance to pick the location. You have some time; give it some thought." Her smile gentles, almost, and she rests her hand on Angela's shoulder for just a moment before walking off. "See you then, Angela."

Angela is left standing outside her door, watching her walk off, and all at once Moira's words hit her. 

" _…do it again… next Tuesday… see you then._ "

She leans against the wall, eyes wide, and whispers, "Is this a date?"

\--

The next week is spent quietly hoping and worrying. Does she march into Moira's lab and demand to know if it is, in fact, a date? Does she pretend it is nothing more than dinner with a friend?

She hems and haws and before she knows it, she's wasted the week wondering, and she hasn't even thought of where to go.

She hurries out of her lab, disappearing into her room and reemerging moments later with a warm sweater in place of her lab coat. She shrugs it on, thinking in a rush - what was good enough for a maybe-date? There was one of those fast food places that sprung up overnight just on the edge of town, a chain restaurant or two that served okay entrees and better drinks; she hesitates just outside of Moira's lab, then knocks on the doorframe even as she looks inside. 

Moira has her sleeves rolled up, peering at some vibrant blue liquid in a syringe, and she almost startles when Angela calls out, "Are you ready?"

"Ah, Angela, yes - one moment, please." She flashes Angela a smile, carefully putting the syringe down with a set of others in a neat row, each as colorful as the last, and steps back, surveying what little clean-up she's done. Apparently satisfied, she turns, striding towards the door and loosening her tie in an incredibly distracting manner. "I've been looking forward to this. Where did you decide to go?"

"I - that is - there's a place near the center of town," she says, stammering a little, "that I used to frequent when I first arrived at the Watchpoint. I thought you might like it."

"Well, we'll have to go see, won't we?" says Moira, and Angela's heart skips a beat.

\--

She doesn't get a chance to ask if it was a date - every time she works up the courage to ask over dinner, the server comes by, or the conversation goes astray, or the universe conspires to prevent her from asking in the most mundane ways possible. It's a little frustrating, but even so she's almost glad for the setbacks.

Halfway through dessert - Moira had no sweet tooth to speak of, but Angela had told her that they were really rather good here, and her suggestion of splitting one goes over rather well - her phone rings, and when she raises it to her ear, it's all she can do not to drop it. 

She carefully sets her phone down, staring at the table, and Moira asks, "Is something the matter?"

"I need to get back to the Watchpoint," she says, voice sounding hollow. "A mission - a mission went wrong. Worse than wrong."

Moira nods, glancing across the room towards the server. "I'll take care of this. Hurry back and save a life, will you?"

\--

She runs. She's not an athlete by any means - she's in shape enough to flit about a field and stay on top of things, but even still, her work doesn't require any amount of physical prowess. But she runs, and with the adrenaline filling her, she makes it back to the Watchpoint out of breath and in record time.

Ana is standing by her lab door, anxiously tapping her foot, and when she spots Angela her relief is clearly visible, and that's almost as worrying as the tight smile on her face. "Ah, good," she says, stepping through to the lab while an out-of-breath Angela follows, "you're here." She hesitates, looking towards the back rooms, where the actual sick bay lies, and says, quietly, "Do what you can. Please."

\--

"You know," says a voice, startling Angela out of her thoughts, "drinking this high up isn't going to do you any favors when you wish to stand."

Moira drops down next to her, long legs hanging off the edges of the catwalk, and Angela sighs, propping her chin up on one hand. "Maybe," she allows, running one finger around the lip of the bottle. "But I think I'll do it regardless."

"Oh, by all means. Don't let me stop you." Moira waves her hand in the air dismissively.

Angela watches her for a moment, quietly assessing, then sighs. "Do you want any? You don't look as if you intend to get up anytime soon."

"Thank you, but I'm alright."

The quietness returns and Angela looks out over the hangar. It's silent as the grave inside, with only a few fading strands of sunlight creeping in from one high-up window across the way. Below the catwalks lies a now-empty space for team simulations; to either side hang empty jets, some heavy with a coating of dust. But the walkway is clear, perfectly spotless save for a wet ring to Angela's side where the bottle's been resting. 

Angela opens her mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and stops. Then she does it again, and once more - she knows she wants to say something, wants to have something filling the empty air and the sound of someone's voice is as good as anything, but she can't find the words. 

_Why can't I save everyone,_ she tries. 

_Why are you here,_ she tries again, and then _how do I figure you out?_

She almost tries, _will you let me kiss you,_ just to see if it'll work, but she's drinking at the time and so it's swallowed alongside burning whiskey. 

Moira rescues her, quietly asking, "Is this your usual method of dealing with missions gone wrong?"

"No," she says, almost wishing there was some sort of judgement behind Moira's question instead of… whatever is there instead. Curiosity? Kindness? She takes another drink. "This is new for me."

She pauses, staring out across the empty space, and says, "If more missions went as poorly as this one, perhaps this would not be so unusual. A team of five, and three don't come home? The two that find their way back scarred, broken and bloody, one with a bit of omnic still lodged in her chest?" She swears, closing her eyes tight, and drops her head. "This is the nightmare scenario," she says, softer, "and I wish dearly that I would wake up."

Moira lets out a breath - not quite a sigh, but too purposeful to be simple breathing - and says, "The world can be cruel, taking as easily as it gives. Surrounding ourselves with what may lessen the cruelty we face is, perhaps, how we manage to survive."

Angela swallows the dregs at the bottom of the bottle, wiping at her mouth with the side of her hand, and the whiskey hits her stomach; it feels like warm coals, burning brightly at her core, and in the morning she'll blame the alcohol and the weird sort of disconnect experienced after a tragedy for what she is about to do. 

She says, voice breaking on the last word, "Please don't be cruel to me," and leans over to kiss her. 

Her lips are cold, she thinks, but her thoughts are hazy; her eyes are shut tight, so as to hide Moira's reaction. It lasts barely more than a moment, Angela drawing back as quickly as she leaned over, and she stands quicker than she maybe ought to, with the alcohol in her system and the rush of blood to her head. 

"Good night, Moira," she says, hurrying away, as quickly as she dares to this high from the ground, bottle clenched tightly in one fist.

\--

She wakes up the next morning in her bed, with no recollection of getting there; she can see the whiskey bottle standing on her desk, and with the sight of it a flood of memories rush back to her.

Rushing to her lab, seeing to the survivors, drinking on the hangar catwalks.

Kissing Moira. 

She groans, dropping her arm across her face to cover her eyes, and lays there for a few minutes longer, trying not to think about what she'd done last night.

\--

The next two days go something like this:

After Angela sneaks into the kitchens for a late breakfast, she goes to her lab to look at the wounds the two survivors sustained during their skirmish with the rogue omnics in the light of day. She tuts disapprovingly at the bruising and at the still-fresh cuts, then gets to work. Someone - an intern, maybe, by the looks of them - drops in to help her when one of them starts to look as if they may faint, which she tells them was kind. 

She heads back to her bed directly afterwards and does not leave until the next morning. She goes to the kitchens, eats something, and goes back to her lab. Rinse and repeat.

\--

On the third day, Moira is in her lab when she arrives, leaning against Angela's desk and glancing over as the lights flicker on. "I was wondering when you'd show up," she says, in way of a _hello,_ and Angela feels her heart stop for a moment.

"I am here now," she says, and it sounds painfully awkward. She goes to her desk, ignoring the feeling that her legs might give out beneath her, and setting down her cup of tea before she glances over at Moira. "Did you come for any reason in particular?"

Moira looks thoughtfully at the machine directly across from her, then turns towards Angela. "Forgive me for being blunt," she says, though she's not really asking, and her expression is strangely blank. "Angela, why did you kiss me?"

She hesitates. _Because I like you,_ she thinks, and then _because I was drunk_ and _because it seemed like a good idea at the time but now, with you standing here, it feels like I have made a massive mistake._

"Because I wanted to, I suppose," she says, and her voice sounds distant and far away. "I'm sorry, I should not have-"

"Oh, that won't do," says Moira, softly, and she dips in and presses her lips to Angela's. 

It lasts longer than the first kiss, the one on the catwalks; one of Moira's hands finds its way to Angela's shoulder, and Angela can feel herself stiffen and then relax in quick succession, and then she draws back. 

They're both quiet, searching each other's faces for some sort of sign - an answer, perhaps, to an unspoken question of _liking_ and _interest_ and _can I do that again?_

She says, "Are you-"

And Moira says, "If you don't mind."

 _No,_ thinks Angela, already leaning in. _I don't mind at all._


End file.
